Met with the other Mr Patel to talk about the job, but my answer was nope. It was nice imagining it, but the pay was less than my Mr Patel said — not a lot less, but enough to make me hesitate. Maybe I misunderstood.

And the rez hotel I’d have to live and work in? It’s in the skankiest hooker and heroin part of the Tenderloin. It wasn’t bad inside, but even a scuzball like me has standards, and that’s not a block I want to call home.

I could maybe overlook those issues, but the job also wasn’t graveyard shift like I thought. My Mr Patel said night shift, but that’s 6PM to 2AM Thursday-Monday, so when would I go to the movies? I couldn’t go to evening shows during the week, and even matinees on the weekend might not get me back on time. A job is a job, but being able to go to the movies whenever I please is pretnear the only think that isn’t pathetic in my life, so — no.

His feelings weren’t hurt, and I’m not sure he would’ve hired me anyway. He seemed disinterested and skeptical even as we shook hands. Was I supposed to wear a tie or something? I have my dad’s bow tie, but it didn’t occur to me. Oh, well.

♦ ♦ ♦

And speaking of movies: After work I BARTed to the UC in Berkeley for their ongoing “Films Out of Focus” series, tonight a double feature of Reservoir Dogs (1992) and the Hong Kongian film that inspired it, City on Fire (1987).

Both stories involve botched jewelry heists, with a police undercover agent who’s in on the job, and the cop becoming buddies with one of the baddies. The Reservoir Dogs trademark shot of thieves in suits and sunglasses walking slow-mo on city streets, and the memorable three-way standoff in a warehouse, were also imported from Hong Kong.

City on Fire tells its tale from the police point-of-view, with a silly subplot about the undercover cop’s on-again off-again engagement to luscious Carrie Ng. It’s all set against a Christmas backdrop, and the song on the soundtrack is “Unrewarding,” a likably cynical commentary on everything in life, sung Shirley Bassey style. City on Fire is a good movie.

Reservoir Dogs eliminates all the subplots and zooms in on the crooks, has no women to speak of in the story, and it’s made all the more American with a generous dollop of retro rock and unnecessary racism. It’s a funnier, livelier, bloodier, and all-around better film.

Quentin Tarantino ought to be embarrassed, not for the borrowing, but for not acknowledging it. Nobody in the arts stands alone, certainly nobody in cinema, and it’s no shame to say what your inspiration was — The Magnificent Seven was spawned by Seven Samurai, and said so right in the opening credits. Tarantino, though, never said a word, just milked up the rave reviews, until Film Threat nailed down all the similarities. So he’s a pud, albeit a pud who makes good movies.

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